Within a Dream
by FloatyDucky
Summary: Steve Rogers doesn't dream. He remembers dreaming during the war, and before the war, but since waking from the ice, dreams elude him. Sleep holds nothing for him. And now, thinking back, he realizes that should have been the first sign that something was very, very wrong. Rated for some language.


**A/N:** If I had to explain where this came from, I'd have to say that it's because I haven't written in too long, and I pulled a desperate idea from my brain that was still half asleep. As far as I know, there's going to be some serious mind fuckery, some aliens, and lots of Steve whump. But I also guarantee a happy ending?

**Timeline:** Post Avengers. Post Iron Man 3 and Thor 2, pre Winter Soldier.

**Disclaimer:** I do not claim ownership of these characters or these franchises. If I did own all of this stuff, the Captain America: The Winter Soldier would end with Steve and Bucky's wedding. Yes. It totally would.

* * *

Take this kiss upon the brow!  
And, in parting from you now,  
Thus much let me avow:  
You are not wrong who deem  
That my days have been a dream;  
Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less gone?  
All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar  
Of a surf-tormented shore,  
And I hold within my hand  
Grains of the golden sand-  
How few! yet how they creep  
Through my fingers to the deep,  
While I weep-while I weep!  
O God! can I not grasp  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
O God! can I not save  
One from the pitiless wave?  
Is all that we see or seem  
But a dream within a dream?

_-"A Dream Within a Dream," Edgar Allen Poe_

**Within a Dream**

Prologue

Steve didn't dream.

Tony had asked him one time, when they'd both been drinking late at night, alcohol heavy on both their breaths but muddling only one mind-he asked him if he ever dreamt of the war, of people he used to know. If he ever had nightmares, recollections of moments that still frightened him.

"Ever dream of being back on that plane?" Tony had asked, swirling some amber liquid in a short glass. The inventor had stared into his drink as if Steve's face were in there instead of on the other side of the counter. "How about crashing into the ice? Ever dream of that?"

"No," Steve had said. His mind had been unaffected by the alcohol, as always, but the battle against Hydra that day had drained him of most of his energy and brain power. He had been bone weary and close to just sprawling on the floor to sleep forever. He hadn't wanted to talk. He had traced the rim of his own glass with his thumb, wondering how he had ever let Tony convince him to drink this late into the night, knowing that his friend had only wanted to drink away memories of the last battle, where everything had gone so wrong. He should have stopped Tony hours ago. "I don't."

"I dream a lot," Tony had said, and Steve wasn't sure if Tony had even heard his answer. "You know. Stupid dreams. Normal dreams for me, a genius, I guess. But lately, I've had these nightmares, of our first battle. You remember? That time I proved you wrong? Y'know, risked my life for the lives of millions. Yeah, you remember. I dream of that a lot." He had set his glass down and stared at a wall, brow furrowed. "Sometimes I have nightmares of Obidiah. But mostly of falling and never landing. Sometimes I'm burning up because I didn't let go of the nuke fast enough. Sometimes New York is burning."

Steve had watched him then, studied his friend's face and the contemplative expression there. Tony had to dream a lot. With all the thoughts and ideas and jokes stuck in that brilliant mind, all clamoring to escape but stuck because there just wasn't enough time in the day, even when Tony rattled on and on like he did-there had to be some other way for those things to be released.

"And now," Tony had continued. "Now I'm going to dream of this last battle. I'm going to see all those bodies again. Night after night. Fuck. I wasn't meant for this." He had grimaced and tossed back the last of his drink, had looked at Steve and laughed. "Y'know Cap, now's about the right time to stop me. Also, don't tell Pepper."

Steve had taken the bottle of booze away and helped Tony to his feet, led him down the hall to his room, all the while telling him that they had saved people, too. The battle hadn't been completely lost. And after Tony had laughed bitterly and waved him off, shutting his door before Steve could follow him in with more desperate lies, Steve had wandered into the living room and sat, alone.

Through the windows he watched the lights of the New York skyline against a starry night. The empty couch cushions on either side of him felt wide and empty and the living room was too silent. They all lived in the Tower, but sometimes it could be ridiculously lonely.

He had fallen asleep on the couch, and had woken up with dried trails of tears down his cheeks, and a hurting jaw that clicked when he opened it too wide.

He hadn't dreamt at all.

He didn't know what that meant. He had dreamed during the war, and before the war. He remembered dreaming of bullies in dark, endless alleys, of the Red Skull laughing and swallowing the Earth whole, of Bucky falling and falling and taking Steve's soul with him. He remembered dreaming of Peggy with her bright eyes and confident stride, of Bucky slinging an arm around his shoulders and telling him of a bright future, of the Howling Commandos reuniting back in the states after the war and drinking from bottomless mugs and laughing because yes, they were all alive and well, and the war was fucking done and the world was safe, goddammit.

He remembered that. But now, now he didn't dream. And he knew it wasn't that he just didn't remember his dreams, because he never woke up with the light feeling in his chest that a good dream left, or the heavy, twisting feeling in his gut that nightmares left. He didn't wake up with anything. There was always only a moment of a blank mind and an empty feeling where there should be at least something. Something. Anything.

Steve Rogers didn't dream. He didn't dream of anything. And now, thinking back, he realizes that should have been the first sign that something was very, very wrong.

* * *

**A/N:** I know there's a lot of unanswered questions here, and nothing's really explained at all, and I have no excuses, but the next chapter should be bigger and better. Thoughts and opinions are totally welcome, as is constructive criticism. All reviewers will receive virtual cookies decorated like Cap's shield. And a tall glass of milk, of course.


End file.
